


'Sorry' seems to be the hardest word (But it's not.) ('Daisy' is.)

by BrilliantlyHorrid



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Also a name fic, But needs to try harder, F/M, Finally a cabin fic, Phil tries, UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-02
Updated: 2015-10-02
Packaged: 2018-04-24 11:46:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4918315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrilliantlyHorrid/pseuds/BrilliantlyHorrid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil is great at remembering names and faces, so why is he struggling so much with this?<br/>(Hint: it's inner turmoil and difficulty with acceptance. That wasn't much of a hint.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	'Sorry' seems to be the hardest word (But it's not.) ('Daisy' is.)

**Author's Note:**

> Started this guy actually before the glorious moment Daisy said PHIL and we all died, so I figured I'd start it up again. This takes place after the premiere, in some undetermined point of the near future.

“Well that was not in my top ten experiences of the day,” Skye said tossing her sodden gloves onto the table. Catching Coulson’s very pointed stare she sighed, picking them up and dropping them on a nearby window sill instead. She looked at him questioningly and he nodded, eliciting an enthusiastic eye roll. He was just lucky she'd removed her outer gauntlets before the storm struck. Phil winced as he imagined her tossing those on the solid oak table. 

 _What?_ The Retreat was finally back in pristine condition, he wasn’t going to let it become a sty. The unfinished wooden table was a new addition, handmade (not by him, of course,) and those gloves would have left some nasty water marks.

“No, the monsoon was definitely unexpected,” he agreed, taking a quick glance around the cabin. The pit stop had been planned, but what hadn’t been planned was the sudden summer downpour. Lola could keep up under most circumstances, but heavy wind and rain was not her specialty. Grimacing, he imagined her out there in the woods. Skye had looked at him like he was crazy when he paused to open the trunk instead of bolt for the cabin. But rather than attach Lola’s regular hardtop, he’d asked Mack to whip up a little something for situations such as these. It probably would have been better to just let him install a retractable roof, but that was a little too big a modification for Phil to handle. And he had to admit,  watching the panels emerge from Mack’s contraption to form a sturdy dome over Lola’s interior was pretty cool.

“We good?” Skye had yelled over the rain, for some reason waiting for him, and he nodded as they took off, giving the car one last look. She would be fine. Really.

(Daisy would have helped him attach the hard top if he’d asked.)

Feeling small drops of water hit his face, Coulson turned to look at Skye, who was shaking out her hair like a dog. At Coulson’s surprised noise, Skye looked up at his amused face.

“What?” she asked, defensive but with no real irritation. She began to unzip her tactical suit, so Phil made himself busy. Walking over to the kitchen he opened a cabinet, feeling something drop to the floor.

_Oh, right._

Before leaving the car he’d made sure to grab the small bundle, along with his overnight bag. Tucking it in his coat had seemed to do the job keeping it dry, he noticed with relief.

“What’s that?” Skye asked, and Phil made sure that, while he registered that she was wearing just her shorts and tank top now, he didn’t linger on that fact. He’d gotten pretty good at it, if you asked him.

(If you asked Daisy, he wasn’t as good as he thought.)

“It’s for you, actually,” Coulson told her, handing Skye the slightly damp package. The wrapping was non-descript, brown paper, and the weight of it seemed to surprise her a bit. She handled it delicately, a small knit forming in her brow. “You have a birthday coming up,” Phil clarified, and Skye looked up at him.

“You got me a present?”

He wasn’t afraid to admit it: her confusion hurt. While part of him wanted to tell her ‘ _of course I did_ ,’ the other, more logical part said maybe that wouldn’t be wise.

“Sure,” he said casually, sticking his hands in his pockets. They were wet, so he removed his hands and placed them at his sides instead, the motion only slightly awkward.

(Daisy pretended not to see how uncomfortable he looked. Was he nervous?)

“I thought birthday protocol was donuts in the conference room. _Maybe_ a night off, if you ask nicely,” Skye said, eyeing the present with a raised eyebrow. She didn’t look suspicious, per se, but definitely hesitant. Was it really that weird, him giving her a birthday present?

“Skye,” Coulson sighed, and she crossed her arms, turning to face him fully.

“Yes Phil?” she asked, _almost_ innocently. Coulson pursed his lips.

“Agent Johnson.”

“ _Director Coulson?_ ”

“ _Daisy_ ,” he corrected, feeling slightly childish. He was working on it. “Just take the gift.” Walking over to the closet he reached in and grabbed a hanger for his jacket. He had hadn’t worn a good suit in what felt like ages, but the urge to protect his nice things won out, and he was reluctant to leave even his field jacket in a wet heap on the floor. Hanging it up by the window to dry, he looked out over the lake.

“It’s nothing special,” he said with a shrug, wincing as the cold air of the Retreat’s AC hit his wet shirt. _That should probably get hung up too_ , he thought. Phil wondered if there was still a drawer or two filled with SHIELD sweats. The cabin had been through hell, and in his renovations he'd never checked to see if Gonzales and his team were the sportswear-stealing type.

Skye was oddly, noticeably silent, so Coulson turned to look at her. She was staring at the object in her hands, one finger tracing over the lettering.

(She thought he didn’t like the name, that he kept messing it up on purpose, but…)

“It’s more for show, than anything,” Phil said, feeling the need to fill the silence. “It’s not like there are any neighbors,” he joked. “But since you’ll be spending more time around here…” He trailed off. He wanted it to feel like home. The Playground was a home, but far enough away from the other base that visits would be sparse. That base itself, once it was built, would be a kind of home, but that was still a ways off.

Plus, despite the renovations, this was still the place she was tracked down and chased by Other SHIELD, so Phil thought it couldn’t hurt to give it a few new, personal touches. He wouldn’t say it out loud, but the idea of Skye feeling happy there, truly happy and comfortable and safe was of the utmost importance to him. After all, the last time he’d put her there, she was anything but.

(Between the simple vintage decor and the way it somehow already smelled like him, Daisy felt at home in the Retreat from the moment they walked in.)

“This is…” Skye said, still not looking at him. It was nothing, really. Just off-white on black slate, classic, simple lettering. But her fingers traced through the grooves of the letters almost lovingly, like she was memorizing them. Which was silly, because if anyone needed to remember it was _him_.

“Do you think it’s smart to put my name out front?” She asked, joking. He thinks. Phil shrugged his shoulders.

“If someone manages to breach the perimeter they probably will already know you’re here,” he said, and Skye nodded. “You can hang it inside if you want,” he suggested instead, looking around for a suitable location. He hoped she liked it, simple as it was. Not really useful, but not much of  novelty either. But he thought it was important for him to show her. That he was _trying_ , that he knew who she was.

“Thank you,” he heard her say, and he turned around to look at her. She was looking at him now, some sort of emotion in her face he couldn’t read that felt almost dangerous alone in a cabin in wet clothes.

“I’m going to change,” he says, instead of ‘ _you’re welcome_ ,’ or ‘ _I hope you like it_ ,’ or ‘ _I had it made months ago and have been waiting impatiently ever since_.’ She just nodded, looking down at the sign, her eyes curving around the letters of her name. Her new name that wasn’t all that new, just new to her. He wondered if it still felt strange, if the change wasn’t a little bit frightening or awkward for her. But he could just be projecting.

Phil Coulson was never afraid of change, just of loss. And he was finally beginning to realize that he was never going to lose Skye.

***

“What are we looking at?” Coulson asked, emerging from the bathroom. He clicked his hand back into place, after thoroughly checking for any water damage. The last thing he needed was to fry the damn thing. Skye had apparently changed as well when he was out of the room, and she noted their matching sweats with a grin. 

“Well, we’ve got power, which is great,” she began, scrolling down the screen of her laptop. “But the rain isn’t supposed to let up until early morning. So,” she said, closing her laptop and pulling her legs up onto the couch. “Slumber party?”

Sighing, Coulson sat on the couch next to her. “Pillow fights are against SHIELD protocol,” he told her, just serious enough for her to need a second to register the joke before smiling.

“Well that’s a shame, because we don’t have marshmallows or ice cream here, and I’m pretty sure neither of us has long enough hair for braiding,” Skye told him, looking up at his hair. He resisted the urge to try to neaten it under her scrutiny.

(His hair looked a little mussed, and Daisy resisted the urge to tease him for it. It was _cute_.)

“I don’t know,” he tells her casually, hoping to turn the attention to her own head of hair and not his, which is, in some places, lacking. “We might be able to make something work,” he said, reaching over thoughtlessly to run a hand through her hair, feel the length of it.

Clearing her throat, Skye turned to look at the kitchen. “You got any food in this joint?” As she stood up, Phil winced. He wasn’t thinking.

“Uh, there should be a few things in the pantry.” Watching her walk to the kitchen, away from him, Phil sighed. “Skye--”

“ _Daisy_ ,” she corrected him, not even turning around.

“I know, I know," he muttered, frustrated at himself, not her.

“Do you?” She asked, crossing her arms and facing him. She looked at the nameplate sitting on the kitchen table. “You know I’m going to keep on calling you ‘Phil’ until you get it right, right?” She joked, watching as he walked over.

Phil shrugged, and Sk-- _Daisy_ tilted her head.

“It doesn’t actually bother me,” he told her honestly, and her eyebrows shot up.

“It _doesn’t_ ,” she said incredulously. “Mr. ‘What’s wrong with Agent Coulson,’ Director ‘I’d rather you not call me Phil--’”

“That was different,” Coulson explained, leaning back against the kitchen counter. “It was different back then.” _We were different back then._

(Daisy had long given up on being able to call him by his first name. When she first tried it, after he’d messed up her name at least a half-dozen times, she felt a little thrill. And him not correcting her almost felt like acceptance.)

“So I’m going to need a better motivator,” she guessed, and Phil shrugged once again. Pressing a finger to her chin in thought, she hummed. “Let’s see… Every time you slip up…”

“I’m not going to take off any clothes,” he interrupted and she gaped a bit. He’d thought she would say it--as a joke-- so he wanted to get it over with. Save himself the embarrassment or shock. But she wasn’t going to say it.

(Daisy was _absolutely_ going to say it. As a joke, sure, but depending on his face...she was going to play it by ear.)

“I was _going_ to say give me a dollar,” she said smoothly, and Coulson pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead. “But now that you mention it--” Coulson stopped her, walking over to his jacket and pulling out his wallet.

Muttering to himself, he sifted through the slightly damp bills. “Should that catch me up?” He asked, handing her a 20. She actually laughed.

“Yeah, nice try,” she crowed, waving the bill at him. “You got five more of these?”

Phil winced. “That bad, huh?”

“Oh yeah. Hey, at least you’re trying, right?” She asked, nodding toward her present.

_Right?_

“I’ll try harder,” he told her sincerely. She smiled at him, abandoning the pantry and heading back toward the couch. “You want a drink?” She asked, and Coulson raised an eyebrow.

“I don’t think I have anything here,” he said, and she reached into her bag, pulling out a bottle.

“Whiskey okay?”

 _She’s smug_ , he thought, watching the slow smile form on her face.

“I see you’ve been working with Hunter,” he observed while he walked over, and she let out this little laugh that made him wish he had that drink already.

“Yes, well, far be it from me to judge someone who’s always prepared,” she said, looking over the bottle. “This was actually a birthday gift from him.”

Feeling far too silly even as he said it, Coulson leaned forward, resting his elbows on the back of the couch. “Whose present do you like better?” He asked, Skye’s look of gleeful surprise making his clear lack of 'chill' worth it.

“Well, we’ll have to find out,” Skye responded, handing him the bottle.

Turning the bottle over in his hands, Coulson paused. “Thank you, Daisy,” he said, and could tell that she knew it wasn’t just for the booze.

She smiled warmly. “You’re welcome, Phil,” she said, and Coulson laughed quietly. Moving to sit on the couch, he wondered if he should first offer to grab some cups from the kitchen. 

But then Daisy reached down into the same bag the bottle came from, her eyes locking with Phil's as she placed them on the table.

Two glasses.

( _Another_ gift from Hunter, who’d mysteriously suggested Daisy might have better luck with them.)

Phil opened the bottle.

 


End file.
